Slow Poison
by HaloFin17
Summary: "That poison was meant to kill a Dwarf instantly. It will kill an Elf, too – just more slowly." Those were Bolg's last words before Legolas killed him. Another father/son fic. Two-shot, AU for BoFA. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **"That poison was meant to kill a Dwarf instantly. It will kill an Elf, too – just more slowly." Those were Bolg's last words before Legolas killed him. Another father/son fic. Two-shot, AU for BoFA. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **No ownership and no profit on my part. This endeavor is purely for entertainment and recreation.

**Author's Note: **I apologize for the inevitable similarities to my previous fic "Simple Acts," but I simply couldn't resist getting inside Thranduil's head a little more this time around. Circumstances are decidedly more serious for Legolas now too, so I guess this one was written purely for my own personal indulgence. Hope you enjoy it as well!

**Slow Poison: Part 1**

_"That poison was meant to kill a Dwarf instantly. It will kill an Elf, too – just more slowly."_

The Orc chieftain, Bolg – those had been his last words before Legolas killed him.

At first, the Elven Prince didn't understand; then his gaze turned to the scratch on his left wrist. It had been so superficial, barely deep enough to be considered a flesh wound! Only now he could feel a tingling sensation creeping up his arm, more of a tickle than a burn. But it was spreading – and intensifying.

Legolas fumbled to retrieve his knife from Bolg's corpse with his right hand, as the fingers of his left hand were already turning numb. What in all of Arda was this? Some foul concoction meant to guarantee the end of Durin's bloodline, as Azog the Defiler had famously sworn to bring about? At least it was no Morgul venom, otherwise he wouldn't be feeling the effects of it quite so rapidly.

The Prince hurried onward as best as he was able, uncertain how long his legs would remain steady enough to support him. It wasn't long. The effects of the poison reached his stomach, and the wrenching, cramping pain that followed abruptly brought Legolas to his hands and knees. His stomach heaved, and the next thing he knew, he was staring down through blurred vision at a pool of his own blood.

He couldn't stop himself from coughing afterward, an agony all its own which spewed more flecks of red from his mouth. His head spun, and only distantly did he realize that his entire body was shaking uncontrollably. The tingling had indeed become a burn now, a fire whose flames licked through every blood vessel in his body.

Legolas would have panicked, if only the torment would pause long enough for him to do so. Where was Tauriel? Would she come looking for him? Was she even alive? He would have worried for her, too, had not another bout of violent retching driven all thoughts of friendship firmly from his mind.

* * *

King Thranduil bypassed yet another corpse at his feet. Though he vaguely recognized the young, blonde Dwarf, he gave the body no further thought. There was only one person he sought in this venture, dead or living. He had ordered everyone else under his command to stay behind in Dale, determined that he would not expose his people to even more death. Yet he himself had come to Ravenhill, and all because his child had been absent for entirely too long.

While as usual his face betrayed no emotion, his heart pounded in his chest with a relentless rhythm as he scanned body after body for any sign of familiar blonde hair. At one point in his searching, he even spotted Tauriel huddled miserably over the body of the other young Dwarvish prince. He hesitated only a moment before pressing on and leaving her alone with her grief.

But then, over the maiden's weeping, his keen ears caught the sound of a wretched coughing. The King paused, listened intently, and followed the noise to its source. He drew his sword, expecting to find a lone surviving Orc – in which case, he would at least be able to end the creature's vile existence.

And so Thranduil's very breath froze in his lungs when he came upon the scene that should have been a nightmare: Legolas, his only child, hunched over on all fours and trembling, with blood dripping unheeded from his lips.

"Legolas!" He sheathed the weapon and rushed to his son's side, reaching automatically for those slender shoulders; but Legolas went altogether limp at the contact, collapsing sideways against his father's legs. He gave no indication that he was even aware the older Elf had joined him.

"Legolas, child, do you hear me?"

No response, only another violent shudder passing through the body that slumped lifelessly against him. Legolas' labored breathing sounded like that of a spooked horse which had galloped one mile too many in its fright.

Thranduil bit out a curse while his sharp eyes raked over every inch of his son's prone form; and even in the fading light, he could not possibly miss the boy's left wrist, festering and inflamed. No doubt some sort of venom here was the cause of this catastrophe. The King hastily removed his glove and laid his own bare hand upon the wound, speaking ancient words to put forth all of what limited healing power he possessed.

"Legolas, look at me!" He gripped the younger Elf's chin now, holding his gaze and striving to force some lucidity back into those glazed blue eyes. Legolas rewarded him with a blink and a spark of recognition; the skin on his face was no longer as alarmingly hot as it had been just moments before. That was good, however…

"This relief is only temporary. I do not have the skill to counteract the poison that ails you." Somehow, he managed to keep his voice and his hands steady. If Legolas truly could hear him, then he needed to ground the Prince in reality, keep him from slipping back into dark oblivion for as long as possible. He mustn't allow his rising panic to show itself, not while Legolas was cognizant of his presence.

"We need to get you to the healers."

His own eyes lifted skyward for a moment, only to see that the Eagles had all flown off elsewhere by now. Of all times for those blasted birds to disappear! Legolas would not possibly be able to stand on his own power now, much less walk. Seeing no alternative, Thranduil wrapped his own rich cloak around his son and gathered the shivering body into his arms.

Yet as the pain inevitably returned and Legolas renewed his physical struggles against an unseen torment, it became increasingly difficult for the Elvenking to carry his burden. They made slow progress toward Dale, even though copious folds of fabric helped to restrict the Prince's movements. Thranduil also had to stop a couple of times when Legolas started coughing up blood again; on each occasion, he would lay his son down and roll him over, ensuring that his airways stayed clear as the precious crimson was expelled.

Nevertheless, he nearly dropped Legolas in surprise and grief when once, just once, the boy's incoherent cries of pain turned into a desperate plea for his mother.

But at long last, Thranduil reached the city outskirts and snapped at the first Elf he saw to have healers summoned to his tent at once. Fortunately for the healers, three of them stood awaiting his arrival when he reached his temporary dwelling. The King pushed past the lot of them without a word, stepping behind the canvas divider that separated his sleeping arrangements from the rest of the tent. He laid Legolas down in his bed, as gently as possible in light of the child's jerking motions, and then stepped back so the healers could go about their vocation.

He watched them work until he could bear no more. Whirling on his heel, Thranduil sought refuge on the other side of the divider, scarcely able now to keep his own breathing in check. He could not stand aside helplessly and watch his son die, if die he must! It was bad enough that he still had to listen to those noises of abject suffering. He cursed his excellent hearing as Legolas groaned once more, but he would stray no farther to escape the sounds coming from the other side of the canvas.

The Elvenking began shedding his extensive armor out of habit, primarily as a means of keeping his hands occupied. By the time his attendants noticed and came to help, the task was nearly finished, and he waved them impatiently away. But then he stared, both entranced and repulsed, at the dried red blood that still coated his hand; it could only belong to Legolas. No amount of carnage he had seen during the day's battle had appalled him more than this. And only an immortal lifetime's worth of discipline enabled him to banish the horror from his ageless features.

"King Thranduil?"

Bard the Dragonslayer stepped inside behind him now, sounding worried, and Thranduil turned sharply to reprimand the mortal for entering uninvited. But the words never left his lips. For while their gazes met only for an instant, it was long enough for Thranduil to know that his eyes had betrayed his soul-deep fear.

Standing there wide-eyed, Bard looked as though he expected the first heavy object readily available to come hurtling through the air toward his head. It was hardly beyond the realm of possibility. But instead, the Elvenking turned his back to the bowman, bracing himself with both arms against the table. He hung his head, white blonde hair falling on either side to partially veil his face.

"Go. Please."

He didn't know what he would do if Bard refused to obey him; after all, no further violence needed to be added to this day. Thankfully, the mortal turned and departed without another word, leaving Thranduil to the solitude he craved. Unable to sit still and unwilling to see to his own needs, the King paced the length of his tent time and time again. The night wore on, torturously slow.

"My King?"

Thranduil paused in mid-step and looked over to see one of the young assistant healers wringing her hands anxiously in front of him. His heart beat faster. "Yes? What news do you bring?"

"If you please, my lord…" The poor girl would not meet his eyes for more than a fraction of a second. "The Prince will not lie still in spite of all we have done so far. We had hoped that, perhaps, you might help restrain him while the healers work, and speak to him. If the Valar are willing, perhaps even now he will heed the sound of his father's voice."

_He has not heeded it much, of late._ No! He must not dwell on such treacherous thoughts now; they had no place here.

Without question, Thranduil would be strong enough for the task requested of him, even after a full day of fighting and a long trek carrying his son's deadweight…yet he had no desire to go in there and watch Legolas writhe in anguish. But if after so many hours the healers were still struggling to contain this poison, then perhaps his son's condition was even more dangerous than he had allowed himself to previously acknowledge. He nodded once and followed the assistant back behind the divider, bracing himself for whatever he might see; nothing could have adequately prepared him.

Legolas, too, had been stripped of his armor, and perspiration glistened sickly against his exposed skin in the torchlight. He moaned and thrashed wildly, disrupting all efforts of the healers who only wanted to help him. It was no wonder they had recruited help for their difficult patient.

Thranduil swallowed down the emotions that rose up like sour bile in his throat, and still he refused to let them reach his face. But if he were to dwell too long on what he was seeing here, the walls of his composure would surely shatter. He settled himself down near his son's head with deliberate slowness.

"Is there nothing you can administer to at least quiet him and lessen the pain?"

The chief healer answered sorrowfully, "We have tried every remedy available to us, my King; he is not responding. We are doing everything we can, but I'm afraid we have not encountered such a poison as this before."

At those words, fear gripped the King in its icy hand. What else was there to do but acquiesce to their wishes? He laid one arm across Legolas' shoulders to restrain him, using basic gravity to gain leverage, and he pressed his other hand against the boy's blazing forehead. Suddenly, Legolas arched off the bed in agony, screaming, and he seized in his father's iron grasp. He resisted the other's hold with surprising strength, albeit not enough. Thranduil's grip on him held firm.

And then there was the healers' second request. They wanted him to talk to Legolas, to try to reach him through the fevered madness. But what was he supposed to say? He had never been comfortable verbally expressing his emotions, even in private. Eventually, after such a long hesitation that his subjects were bound to notice, he settled on leaning down and simply murmuring Legolas' name into his ear. Over and over and over.

**Author's End Note: **Poor Legolas. I almost feel bad doing this to him...but not quite. Stay tuned for the posting of Part 2, which begins with Bard's reflections on this whole unfortunate situation. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **"That poison was meant to kill a Dwarf instantly. It will kill an Elf, too – just more slowly." Those were Bolg's last words before Legolas killed him. Another father/son fic. Two-shot, AU for BoFA. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **No ownership and no profit on my part. This endeavor is purely for entertainment and recreation.

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone for that enthusiastic response to the first chapter! Now I must ask you to please bear with Thranduil in this concluding segment. I haven't exactly been nice to him in this story either, poor guy. Enjoy!

**Slow Poison: Part 2**

Two nights ago, Bard had seen Thranduil hurrying through the ruined streets of Dale with a body in his arms; and surely the Elvenking would only deign to personally carry his own child. He had felt a pang of parental empathy and genuine worry at the sight. If not for the Elves, Bard's own children would very likely be dead now, brought down either by Orcs or by starvation. He had even gathered that it had been Legolas himself, along with Tauriel, who had personally beaten off the Orcs that had attacked his home in Laketown.

His visit to the King's tent that same evening had only confirmed the severity of his suspicions. If not for Thranduil's disarming "please," Bard might have pressed his ally for more information, as his concern and desire to help were deep enough to overpower all warranted caution. It wasn't right that Thranduil should be on the verge of losing his only son! And how strained would relations become between the Elves and the Dwarves going forward, if the worst should happen?

Of course, Bard knew the Prince was sure to receive only the best care from the Elven healers…but that didn't stop him from taking occasional detours past the King's tent over the next two days. Thus far, he had perceived no indication that Legolas had succumbed to his wounds, whatever those might be; but neither did the ongoing sounds of pain and struggle behind the canvas offer any real encouragement. An ominous silence had greeted Bard when he'd walked by the tent earlier that morning, however, and Thranduil himself had made no appearance of any kind since the conclusion of the battle.

Midday approached now as the humble bargeman continued to make his rounds across the city, checking on supplies as well as on Esgaroth's own wounded. But then, from a high vantage point, he spied Gandalf the Grey fast approaching Dale, with Dain Ironfoot and Bilbo Baggins in tow. Apparently, the Wizard had spent his time among the Dwarves in the immediate aftermath of the battle – meaning that he possibly had not heard of Legolas' condition.

Bard ran to intercept them without another thought, dodging carts and leaping over limbs along the way.

"Gandalf! Gandalf, over here!"

Wizard, Dwarf, and Hobbit all turned as one, and their little party met him just outside one of the city gates. Or rather, all that now remained of the gates.

"Gandalf, thank goodness you're here! You must come to King Thranduil immediately."

Bushy grey eyebrows drew together at once in a frown. "What? Has he been injured?"

The bowman opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by Dain's uproarious laughter.

"Ha! That dainty Elfling probably got a scratch on his pretty face! I could've told 'im to sit this one out and leave the dirty work to us Dwarves. We'd all've been better off without him and his kind anyway…"

"Be silent!" Bard snapped at him, not caring if the rebuke made him sound more like a perturbed father than a king. He looked back at Gandalf. "I don't mean Thranduil himself. It's his son that's wounded; poisoned, I think. And I honestly don't even know if he's still alive now, but please, Gandalf, you must help him if you can!"

The Wizard made an impatient gesture with his staff. "Lead on, man! Where is he?"

"The King's tent – this way!"

Gandalf passed his guide as they neared their destination, shouting back an order for the rest of them to meet him later at the main hall. Bard nodded and led the way for his two shorter companions, confident in the knowledge that he could not possibly do more on behalf of his Elvish friend.

* * *

An aura of horror and sickness assaulted Gandalf's senses the moment he set foot in Thranduil's tent.

"The Prince?" he demanded of the first Elf he encountered. "Does he live?"

"For the moment, aye." The Elf, who happened to be a healer, nodded gravely. "Our treatments have prevented him from passing through Death's door, but we cannot leech the poison from his blood entirely. I fear that we may have only prolonged the inevitable."

"Take me to him." Gandalf followed the Elf back behind the canvas divider and at once took in the sad scene before him.

A ghostly pallor had fallen over the Prince's features. All color had drained from his lips, and tiny blue veins could be seen even in his eyelids. Only the slightest rise and fall of his chest betrayed that life clung to him at all. Thranduil sat still cradling Legolas' head and shoulders, even though the mindless struggling had ceased some time ago; the King was free of his battle attire but still not fully cleansed from the filth of war. Haunted blue eyes flickered in acknowledgment of the newcomer's arrival.

"Mithrandir…" None could say if he spoke the name as a threat or as a plea, but it was invitation enough for the Wizard.

"Out, all of you! Leave us."

The frenzied crowd of healers fled almost too eagerly, but Thranduil himself would not budge. Gandalf paid that no mind, stepping closer to begin his examination. Clearly, the situation was every bit as grim as the healer had indicated. Legolas' motionless extremities lay bloodless and ice-cold; already like a corpse.

His proud shoulders bowed by worry and fatigue, the King at length broke the silence between them. "You are rather late in coming, Mithrandir. Why are you really here?"

The abrupt hostility in those words caught Gandalf off guard; still, there seemed no point in lying. "I knew nothing of your son's situation until I arrived just now. I had come with Lord Dain to begin discussing the allocation of Erebor's riches."

"He knows what I want, and it is nothing so great compared to the rest of the treasures inside that accursed mountain!" The Elf's voice then lost its scathing edge, growing desperate instead. "But I would surrender even the gems of my lost queen now, if somehow that would save her child."

"You and I both know there is no use in senseless bargaining," the Istari reasoned, "but I promise you I will do all I can for him. There may yet be time."

But Thranduil dug his fingers into Legolas' shoulders like possessive talons, as near to panicking as was permitted of an Elvenking. "He has only recently grown quiet. Mithrandir – if your efforts are going to make him relive the last two days, only to become again as he is now…then I would rather you did nothing."

Gandalf paused, truly taken aback by the admission; he would have to proceed with caution here. "Surely you do not mean that. I know your grief is a dreadful burden, my lord – as slow and terrible a poison as any device of Darkness. But you must not give in to despair while there is still hope."

"Hope?" Thranduil echoed the word with a snarl, indignation flashing in his sleepless eyes. "My only son lies breathing his last, and you speak of hope? My people have suffered such loss in this place as has not been seen in a full Age – not since I became King. I have been witness to my son's torment on his way to the Halls of Mandos and have been powerless to stop it. Yet you would speak of hope?"

"I speak of hope because your son still lives."

The King's haggard face twisted into something almost cruel as he countered, "But for how much longer, even with your aid? I would rather bid farewell to him now than be forced to watch him suffer anew. I will not endure the loss of him again, Mithrandir! I could not bear it." His voice broke then, an all-pervasive resignation and exhaustion finally evident in his countenance.

Gandalf sighed, his temper softened by understanding. "Yes. It is easier to stand firm in the face of our own death, rather than that of one we love. But your strength of will has seen you through countless battles in your time, Thranduil, and your son needs you to be brave for him today." He strove to be firm yet encouraging as he spoke. "Please, my friend. You must trust me and let me try."

The battle of silent wills lasted only a few heartbeats longer, until King Thranduil bowed his head in submission. Then Gandalf the Grey drew upon the power of a Fire he had carried with him ever since his arrival in Middle Earth, and he began his work.

* * *

His thoughts as he surfaced back to consciousness were fuzzy yet calm. His entire body still ached terribly, and every limb felt like lead. But at least he no longer _burned. _No more Dragon-fire searing him alive from the inside out!

"At last, you wake. Have you command over your own mind now?"

Legolas recognized his father's deep voice at once…but it seemed to come from so very far away. And what an effort simply to turn his head and look at the older Elf! Thranduil sat beside him, a generous arm's length away. That was odd. Legolas couldn't remember ever being wounded or ill enough in the past to warrant the King's vigil at his bedside.

"Yes?" Legolas blinked, weak and disoriented, trying to fit the missing pieces together. He didn't truly understand the question.

"Drink this. Mithrandir acquired some when he was last in Rivendell."

A gentle hand lifted his head, and Legolas recognized the pleasing warmth of _miruvor _on his lips. The mists in his head cleared a little.

"I was hurt," he recalled now, his voice hoarse. Had he been screaming? "You found me. I really can't remember anything after that."

"Which is for the best, I think. For you were poisoned, and there is nothing worth remembering – only agonies and fevered nightmares."

That answer came reluctantly and still sounded a bit evasive to the Prince's ears. But then long, cool fingers brushed once over his brow and through his hair in a slow caress, emphasizing to Legolas even more how critical his health must have been in recent days. He closed his eyes, thoroughly exhausted, and leaned into Thranduil's fingers for as long as they lingered near his cheek. How long had it been since anyone had touched him so tenderly? Probably not since before his mother had died.

"I was frightened for you, _ion-nin_."

Legolas looked back to his father's solemn face then, noticing for the first time that they were in the King's private tent and very much alone. Was it supposed to be this quiet?

"Where are the healers?"

"Even I will admit there was nothing more they could have done, after Mithrandir tended to you. For the last twelve hours, there has been naught to aid your recovery save the strength of your own will to live. But I rejoice that the worst of the danger has passed, now that you are awake and of sound mind."

"How bad was the worst?"

His father's visage suddenly grew stony, and Legolas feared he might receive no answer at all. But it did come, the words low and hushed even in the stillness of the tent.

"It was so terrible that I thought I myself would fade just from watching you suffer."

Shocked, Legolas had no response for that honesty; and then Thranduil stood, effectively dispelling the uncommon intimacy between them.

"Do you feel well enough to eat? Your strength is gone, and you must take in what nourishment you can."

"I think so." His son nodded weakly, right hand clutching at one of the furs that covered him; it would be some days yet before he would recover the full use of his left. The King adjusted the blanket himself, drawing it up around Legolas' shoulders to shield him from the early winter chill before stepping toward the divider.

"Adar?"

Thranduil stopped and turned to look behind him. Once more, a frown of confusion darkened Legolas' ever-youthful countenance.

"How long have I been here?"

"Nearly three days now," his father supplied.

"But…" The younger Elf glanced conspicuously at his luxurious surroundings, particularly the bedding. "Did you not rest at all in that time?"

The King offered a brief smile in reply, though the expression was more grim than comforting. He was clearly exhausted, if the shadows surrounding his bloodshot eyes were anything to judge by. "I have managed through far worse than a few sleepless nights, my child, and your need was infinitely greater than my own. Rest now; I will return to you shortly."

And Legolas knew that he would.

**Author's End Note: **So there you have it! We had to bring Thranduil to a pretty dark place there for a while, but Legolas will survive in the end, thanks to Gandalf. Thanks to Cirdan, really, for giving Narya to Gandalf. I'll tell Thranduil to express his gratitude in person at the next big Telerin/Sindarin reunion. Thanks for reading!


End file.
